


Things are gonna change (next year)

by orphan_account



Series: Start all over again [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Depression, Fourth of July, Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, New Year's Eve, New York City, Pining, Therapy, radical self acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles shifted again, then, and released a long breath. He seemed relieved to have gotten out the worst of it. “And, I'm having a really shitty week, actually. And I don't like myself a lot right now. This week or this year or, um, maybe in this phase of life...”</p><p>and, and, and, Derek chanted in his head. And, and, and, he wished wildly...</p><p>“...and if I'm giving you an insanely wide berth it's because you're gorgeous and good and smart and I'm trying really hard to be honest about how hard it is for me to just... be me. With me. Without anyone else. And that's why I can't hang out and I can't chit-chat when I run into you and that's why I, um, ran away from you. Multiple times.” Stiles exhaled loud and long. “In public.”</p><p>Derek allowed himself a smile at the fireworks exploding overhead. </p><p>“Sorry about that,” Stiles added softly, sounding regretful.</p><p>----</p><p>In which Stiles and Derek work on their shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January

**Author's Note:**

> Derek has depression and anxiety, while Stiles has some issues with dependency and unhealthy relationships.
> 
> ETA 9/24- done and polished up a bit! Thank you so much for reading.

Derek had been hoping to run into Scott and Stiles, actually. It was a rainy Friday and the bar was-- well, not someplace that Derek would never go, but-- more their kind of spot. The jukebox played loud punk with a seemingly un-ironic sprinkling of Billy Joel and Fleetwood Mac; the bartenders poured heavy drinks out of plastic bottles of generic well liquor. Scott had mentioned the place once or twice, and Derek figured that, now that the holidays were well over, Scott and Stiles might be there.

Derek posted up at the bar and tried not to look desperate as he scanned the crowd. He felt a pang of regret at coming so obviously alone, and the giddy shamelessness that had bolstered him out of his apartment faded as the minutes ticked by. 

The whole point of Stiles, of the bar, of navigating the fucking rain hours after that desolate January sunset, the kind that feels like the sun is expiring for the final time, was-- to feel good, Derek thought. Just that. Stiles made him feel good, more than good, and he'd thought that looking for him would be-- also good. Not so embarrassing. Not so sad.

Derek was working very hard to be Not Sad, he reminded himself, but it seemed increasingly plausible that the effort was doing more damage than the end result might remedy.

He felt tired.

The whole point of Stiles, of the bar, of the haircut that he told himself was coincidentally timed, was that last summer had found Derek in his head more often than in reality. It wasn't that he had so much to escape, really, just that working as a freelance designer and moving to New York had given him cause to spend too much time alone, working or just avoiding the crushes of people. He spent too much time online, too much time sketching and thinking about the characters in his head. He withdraw and stayed in for longer and longer stretches, losing track of hours and then days. 

He'd always been like that, his mom commented, stuck in his head, head in the clouds-- 

“Depressed,” Laura had corrected. She'd been the first person to say it out loud

By the end of summer, things were bad, and Derek just... slept, sort of, through August and September. At least that's what he told his therapist. It felt like he was dozing, and he couldn't be sure if-- he was just so tired, for a while. He was always alone and always asleep.

“I'm not numb, I just... haven't been feeling a lot,” he'd said. 

His therapist had confirmed that this was not promising.

So things were bad, and then suddenly really bad, and then Derek sobbed in Whole Foods and then sobbed in front of his landlord and then Laura came to town for a while and helped straighten him out. 

Laura had nodded encouragingly as he called his landlord and lied, saying that he was going through a breakup. She emailed his clients and apologized for his poor communication; she updated his resume, sitting cross-legged on the toilet and speaking softly, while he sat in the bath in swimming trunks.

“Alright, what software programs can you use? Sorry, I don't know any of these design ones,” she'd said, twisting her mouth thoughtfully. “Do you want to light some candles?”

By November, he'd wrapped up most of his freelance projects, gotten a job at a design firm, and more or less stopped crying and sleeping all of the time. Laura left and Derek kept the candles and worked on being Not Sad and told himself that it was OK to avoid that Whole Foods and also to let himself nap on the weekends, but only on the weekends. Laura said so, too. 

It wasn't forever, he told his mom. He'd keep building his portfolio; he just needed the structure of a studio for a while.

Derek had only met Stiles twice: once at the office Christmas party and once at Scott's own holiday party a few nights later. That had been in mid-December; Derek had only started the office job after Thanksgiving. He barely knew Scott, just thought that he seemed nice and didn't make staff meetings any worse. Scott was a competent designer, good at video and modeling work. He'd brought Stiles to the office party because his girlfriend was busy.

At the office party, Derek and Stiles had made small talk, and Stiles had been so plainly beautiful that Derek had found his own attraction trite and ordinary. Stiles was beautiful, at first, the way that sunsets and roses and movie stars are: in a loud and simple way. He was just hot, Derek thought. Scott's hot friend who wore a Rudolf shirt and was friendly. They hardly had time to talk before Derek was pulled away to meet spouses and kids.

But at Scott's place, in his narrow, blue apartment and on the fire escape in the snow, Stiles had been something else. He was beautiful in a secret, specific way, like catching a glimpse of something fleeting... 

Once, Derek had flown through a lightening storm, the only person awake on a red-eye flight. Stiles was lit up like the entire sky had been that night: 

Cosmic. Electric. 

They had talked for hours and forgotten about their drinks and Stiles had wrapped a string of Christmas lights around Derek's head like a crown. Derek told him about the sleeping and trying to be Not Sad and confessed that he was worried that he should be on medication. Stiles listened, touched the crown of lights like he wanted to touch Derek but wasn't sure how. His face was so close-- the space between his upper lip and his nose made Derek want to scream. Stiles was beautiful like green patterns of bruises and he made Derek want to open his mouth and have sex, have a lifetime of sex and sweat and cry and press Stiles into the sheets until they both shimmered and exploded. Stiles made Derek think that ghosts and magic were real and that history was cyclical and that love was something you could wield like a fucking flame thrower against evil and sorrow and muggers and racists.

Derek said, “I don't think I'm supposed to be this tired all of the time.”

Stiles touched his crown and said, “But you're so awake, now. You're awake with me right now.”

Stiles made Derek want to stay out and not go home. Stiles made Derek want to know Stiles and know Scott and be known. Derek had felt-- like he understood why people liked people, again, after all. New York City made sense, suddenly, 4h floor walk-ups and subway platforms and the Governor's Ball and the West Indian Day Parade all seemed less fucking insane. Stiles made Derek want to stay awake the way that little kids do, to see the magic of Santa's visits and midnight ball drops and whatever else grownups witness in the night. Stiles made him sure that those strange months, that fever dream of loneliness and losing time, was such a thin, flimsy imitation of the kind of life that Derek could have.

At the end of the night, they'd promised to see each other soon. It felt so inevitable that it wasn't until the next morning that Derek realized he didn't have Stiles' number.

So: the bar, the haircut, the walking through the rain. Derek's jeans were still damp; the moisture was humiliating.

Derek had ordered a double whiskey soda, tried to savor it, given up and downed it, ordered a beer, closed his tab, and put on his coat by the time Scott finally careened into a stool across the U-shape of the bar. Just as Derek had hoped, Stiles slingshotted in after him, rambling happily even as Scott began to order. Derek felt a surge of relief and vindication and.... excitement.

For a split second, he just stared across the bar, jacket half off, a foreign-feeling smile practically hurting his cheeks. Then he strode around the bar as fast as seemed socially acceptable, practically bowling strangers over on his way--

Stiles paled in front of him, mouth hanging open. He looked more shocked than pleased, but Derek swallowed and grinned. “Hey,” he started, “I--”

“No!” Stiles cried. Derek froze. Stiles slapped his hand across his eyes immediately, and Derek heard a muffled “Fuck my life” as Stiles pulled his hand down his face.

Derek forced out a laugh reflexively. Some instinct told him that this was more than strange or awkward... Stiles had seemed startled, but Derek's gut told him that there was more going on. He glanced at Scott for reassurance but found Scott stock still, brow furrowed. He looked baffled. Stiles' meltdown continued between them.

“Nope nope nope, nope,” Stiles was muttering, eyes were tightly closed. “Nope. Doing the thing. Gotta do that thing. I'm gonna do it.” 

The moment had extended painfully, disastrously, long. The movement of the crowd seemed to emphasize the stiffness of the three of them, and Derek felt his cheeks get hot with embarrassment.

“Hey, are you... OK, Stiles? I didn't mean to scare you, I just thought I'd....” his voiced trailed off as Stiles gulped nervously in front of him. Fuck, he looked miserable. 

Stiles shook his head and seemed to collect himself, barely. “Hey, no, hi, I'm sorry I...” He looked so uncomfortable that Derek had to look away. “Oh, fuck,” Stiles finally concluded. 

Derek felt the last of his optimism fade completely away. His legs were chaffing and Stiles was repulsed by him; the night had gone so far south that it was almost comical.

Stiles seemed to click into motion, then. He turned to Scott abruptly and spoke hurriedly as he wrapped a scarf around his neck. “Scott, I can't, he's fucking up the thing. It's the thing! I gotta go.” 

He threw Derek a guilty look as he stumbled back toward the door.

“Derek, I-- sorry! I'm so sorry, sorry, I just started a thing, I gotta-- fuck, I gotta go.” His voice rose as he moved farther away. “Scott, I gotta go!”

They watched as Stiles pushed out the door, broke into a jog, and vanished around the corner. 

Back at the bar, patrons laughed and shoved. Music still played. Derek felt even more embarrassed than he had the last time he cried in public.

Scott just sighed and pushed two full beers toward Derek.

“Ah, sorry man. He just started a thing and he's.... I don't know, actually.” Scott looked briefly contemplative. “That was the weirdest shit I think I've seen him do, and we were in a frat together.” 

He signed his receipt and waved to the bartender before turning to Derek with a small smile. “Let's get lunch some weekend soon, though, kay? I feel like we never get to hang at work.”

Scott clapped Derek on the shoulder and walked to the door.

“Yeah, lunch. Good luck with... the thing?”


	2. February

**February, I:**

“Oh, god, yeah, sorry, he was so embarrassed about that,” Scott said pleasantly, as if he had presented anything resembling an answer to Derek's weeks of self-doubt. Derek raised his eyebrows and tried to look encouraging, but Scott remained disinterested in elaborating. 

“Hey, speaking of—Stiles, not his weird episode, he loves Mexican, it's a whole thing-- wanna get a burrito?” 

**February, II:**

Stiles appeared at the office at 11:48, about an hour before Derek was planning to take lunch. Derek stared at his shoulders, transfixed, as Stiles strolled over to Scott's office. His cheeks looked so-- 

Derek swiveled abruptly away from the glass office windows. This was unexpected. This was not the Wednesday he'd promised himself in the mirror that morning. 

Derek had thought about his encounter with Stiles obsessively for about, oh, two full weeks after the bar incident. In his defense, he didn't have a whole lot else going on in his social life. He was actually running out of things to tell his therapist, who'd finally bumped him down to one session per week. 

But he'd brought it up to Scott more than once and gotten no explanation, so he'd finally just accepted that the incident would remain mysterious. Scott, ever loyal, seemed determined not to reveal whatever the fuck was going on with Stiles that had rendered him so socially inept. He had strongly implied, though, that the bar fiasco was all Stiles, zero Derek, and so Derek had just forced himself to let it go. It clearly wasn't about him. 

Strange and unfortunate, he told himself, but nothing to fixate on. 

(His therapist and Laura had both been pleasantly surprised at this revelation. “That's quite a rational observation,” his therapist, Carol, had noted, smiling brightly. 

Derek had been short on those for almost six months, so he'd allowed himself to feel a little proud. He was healthier, these days, learning how to to slow down his racing thoughts or work himself out of numbness. On a racing day, tripped up on one idea, he'd mentally run through the checklist that Carol gave him. _What evidence do you have for the thought? What would you tell a friend having that thought? _he asked himself automatically, half bored at his own anxiety. _Scott said Stiles felt embarrassed _, he answered internally. _You would tell Laura not to think about that loser twice _.)______

But the truth was that Derek just missed Stiles. He knew him after that December night, had memorized him and somehow expected him, and the pain of their last encountered hadn't been a blow to the ego, but something softer. Ripping, tender. A loss. Derek felt Stiles' absence in a sore, throbbing way, as though he'd spent years with him.

Embarrassment and fixation eventually gave way to... a little grief, Derek allowed. Mourning some tiny death of possibility. 

In the office, then, with cheeks and shoulders appearing in vivid flashes, Stiles looked so unexpectedly real and close that Derek felt an electric energy course through him. He could take lunch early and walk by Scott's office, he could talk to Stiles again, and surely he-- 

There was a tap on the glass, and he found himself smiling in surprise as Stiles gave him a quick wave. “Later, Derek,” he said, voice muffled through the glass, eyes a little sad. 

Then he walked out. Again.


	3. Spring

**April: ** ********

In April, Derek reduced his hours at the agency and began working there four days each week. He got a desk at a shared workspace and began spending Fridays and Saturdays on his own projects. He got up at the same time every day, made himself 'clock in' at the shared space even though no one cared, and texted Laura if he stayed awake past midnight, so she could nudge him into bed from another time zone. 

He celebrated six months of sleeping and not sleeping at appropriate times, minus a couple days around New Years, which he decided not to count.

He also saw Stiles at a park for about 30 seconds before Stiles locked eyes with him, jerked his chin up awkwardly, and then turned and jogged in the opposite direction.

 

**May, I: ******

Derek had just watched Stiles practically dive through closing train doors to avoid him when he decided to do the reasonable thing and approach Scott again.

He was slumped in the chair in front of Scott's desk before he could convince himself out of it.

“Scott, I wanted to ask you about Stiles. Is he...” Derek trailed off, unsure what the hell he was even asking. “Did I do something to make him uncomfortable at your Christmas party?”

“Ah man, was he weird with you again? He's so weird with you, I'm sorry, it's has nothing to do with you.” Scott looked so genuinely ashamed that Derek almost regretted asking, but he pushed through.

“It just seems like it's me-specific, though. I know he hangs out with you and Isaac, and Kira mentioned that they hang out, and I know you said that it's his issue, but I feel... involved. ”

Scott put down the stylus he'd been twirling nervously and leaned forward onto his elbows. “OK, I hear you. And you're right, it is you-specific, I guess.

“He likes you. You didn't make him uncomfortable, you just made him like you, a lot, and he's going through a sort of difficult time. I know it sounds insane, really, but next time you see him you should ask. I think he wants to tell you but-- “ Scott huffed out a breath, tone turned exasperated and amused. “but he doesn't want to disappoint you.”

Derek's body rushed with warmth. He couldn't help but feel flattered. He sat up straight and felt himself smile, slightly, and he knew that feeling, he knew-- he knew what Scott meant. What Stiles meant. 

“Oh,” he responded, feeling a little dazed. 

They sat in silence for another moment, until Derek broke the silence.

“He didn't cry in a Whole Foods, did he?”

 

**May, II:**

“I'm sorry, I just-- I'm doing this thing for a year, it was a terrible idea and—well, wait, no, it wasn't! It's not. Sorry.” Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and took a deliberate breath. “It's not a terrible idea. It's just, um, hard. And hard is good! It's a healthy challenge, because challenges are good and that's a thing we talk about in therapy. Anyway, um, yes. People. Sex. I... that's not a thing I can do.”

Derek hadn't moved at all for the duration of the outburst. His hand was still hovering over his coffee, carafe of creamer tilted slightly. He let the silence settle awkwardly for another moment before he responded. “I'm sorry, what is... 'the thing' that you're doing?”

Stiles looked briefly surprised, as if it hadn't occurred to him that Derek may not be able to make sense of his rambling, and then collected himself with a small shake of his head. “Ah, sorry! Yes, great question. Um,” he took a deep breath in and then exhaled before beginning in a professional sounding voice, “I've had a series of bad relationships and I've had some issues with sexual intimacy. It's caused a lot of problems in my life and I'm going through a therapy program in which I don't, um... do that any more.”

Derek narrowed his eyes as he processed. “You don't practice sexual intimacy anymore?”

Stiles' relief was obvious. He pointed excitedly at Derek with finger guns. “Right! Well, at least not for this year. But yes, exactly. I'm just not having sex or dating for one year. So, 7 months left! After that I'll probably, um, date and have sex again.” Stiles seemed to get lost in his own thoughts. “I mean, definitely I will. It's not permanent, it's not like I can't do it physically, or something, I just... don't. Right now. But I will, uh...” he trailed off as he pocketed his hands, losing steam on the explanation.

“Next year,” Derek offered.

“Next year, yes.” Stiles clapped his hands together as if the gesture would somehow conclude their conversation. He looked both pleased with himself and incredibly uncomfortable.

Derek hated himself for feeling so endeared. He was confused, sure, but Stiles was... he was wearing glasses and flannel, for fuck's sake. It was hard not to take pity on the guy. 

Derek put down the creamer and carefully snapped the lid onto his cup. “Ok, well-- nice to see you, Stiles, and good luck.”

Stiles shifted from foot to foot nervously, mouth slightly open. He looked about ready to bolt out the door, but after a moment he took a breath instead.

“Hey, when I didn't say anything before, it wasn't because-- I just, I didn't--”

“You didn't want to disappoint me,” Derek finished.

Stiles' feet stilled on the ground and suddenly he looked tall, tall and thin and older.

“I still don't,” he whispered. “I don't, and that's part of why-- um-- I can't.”


	4. July

Derek inhaled the scents of grass and gunpowder and burnt paper-- fireworks. Stiles was lying next to him on his back in the grass, smelling like barbecue and, if Derek strained to detect it, some generic deodorant that made Derek want to swallow him whole.

“It's definitely not an addict thing, no,” Stiles was saying. “Although, I hear what you're saying. It's sort of like a 12-step program meets therapy meets a really hardcore New Year's resolution, I think?”

Derek picked at some grass and Stiles picked at some grass and their fingers interacted briefly. Stiles sighed but didn't flinch like Derek expected he might. He seemed too contemplative to really notice their bodies buzzing loudly against each other. Derek was nearly deafened.

“It's not some 'Eat Pray Love' nonsense. Although, ok, if I'm being honest, I'm sort of basing my year on this book that was one of Oprah's Book Club picks. But first of all, she's amazing and changes lives, and second, I just... I want to commit to something hard and do it. I'm an accomplished person, you know?” 

He looked briefly at Derek, like he really was wondering if Derek knows this, before turning back to look up at the fireworks. Stiles squirmed slightly, toeing off his remaining shoe, before sighing and continuing, voice softened and sincere.

“I did well in school and I have a successful professional life and I'm not... not OK. But I just have terrible self-discipline. I can't stick to a healthy diet, can't save enough money, can't practice guitar enough, can't convince myself to get up and run. And it's OK, and I get by. I save some, I eat alright, I'm not, like... watching my muscles slowly atrophy, or something. 

“But I want to be the kind of person who can take on something meaningful and do it right. 100%. I want to do something all the way. I want to be uncompromising and dedicated and focused and do something great, and I'm scared. I'm really fucking scared that I can't get through this year. I'm scared of what that means about me.”

Stiles' voice trailed off to a whisper. Sam Cooke was soaring from the speakers by the grill, and both Stiles and Derek turned their faces at the sound of passing footsteps-- two kids, running with fists full of blessedly unlit sparklers.

Stiles swallowed loudly and continued, voice stronger but dull, with the resigned tone of someone who was too far into a confession to stop short of the punchline. “I'm scared that I have it so easy. I have nothing in my way, and I'm still incapable of doing something good for myself. And if I ever want to do something really big-- if I want to publish a book or have a marriage or raise kids-- I have to be able to work at something and sacrifice. Earn it. So, I have to learn how to be alone. ”

Stiles shifted again, then, and released a long breath. He seemed relieved to have gotten out the worst of it. “And, I'm having a really shitty week, actually. And I don't like myself a lot right now. This week or this year or, um, maybe in this phase of life...”

_and, and, and, _Derek chanted in his head. _And, and, and, __he wished wildly...___

____“...and if I'm giving you an insanely wide berth it's because you're gorgeous and good and smart and I'm trying really hard to be honest about how hard it is for me to just... be me. With me. Without anyone else. And that's why I can't hang out and I can't chit-chat when I run into you and that's why I, um, ran away from you. Multiple times.” Stiles exhaled loud and long. “In public.”_ _ _ _

____Derek allowed himself a smile at the fireworks exploding overhead._ _ _ _

____“Sorry about that,” Stiles added softly, sounding regretful._ _ _ _


	5. Summer into Fall

**August:**

“Hey.”

“Still on it?”

“Hell yeah, man, I've been in a zone.”

Stiles looked good, actually. Great. He was lightly sweaty in loose shorts and an old shirt, carrying a grocery bag in one hand and fiddling with his keys in the other. He smiled at Derek in that open way that made Derek's hands tingle. 

“I'm proud of you, Stiles.”

“Aw man,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes as he turned to walk away. “Thanks mom, see you next year!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Go google 'radical self acceptance,' get on my level!” He was practically hollering from across the parking lot, now.

Derek stood in place and chuckled, for a moment, before he walked the rest of the way into the grocery store.

 

**September, I:**

Derek called his mom to ask what she used in her chicken stock and ended up in tears, sitting cross legged on the kitchen floor, with his mother on speaker. It's wasn't that bad, actually. It just felt like a release that'd been a long time coming. Like he'd specifically needed to cry on the kitchen floor for months, but had simply forgotten to.

He scooted back to rest against the cabinets. “I'm tired sometimes and I can't tell if I was like this before, if I was always this tired, or if it's new. Or if I'm imagining it all to begin with. Or if I'm sick.”

His mom let out a thoughtful hum before responding. “Well, I trust you. And I think you should trust you.” Derek was silent. He tapped his ahead against the wood behind him.

“Derek, what would your therapist say?” she prodded. “What does she tell you about the mental/physical stuff?”

“Carol would say that I might really be tired because I'm depressed, and that I might feel depressed when I'm tired.”

“Ok, that sounds smart. Any clues?”

Something strange and honest flickered through him as he thought on it for a moment, taking stock of his workouts and meals for the week. “I think I'm really lonely,” he suddenly blurted. “Um, actually. I think... I think I might be tired of being alone.”

“Oh,” she replied after a moment. “Well shit, which one is that?”

 

**September, II:**

One of Derek's freelance clients needed to hire an editor and a technical writer, and, well, Stiles was really the only person he could recommend; Derek didn't know any other technical writers, so he didn't really decide, he just.. told the truth, he said to himself. And referred Stiles. 

This meant that Stiles took Derek out for a beer in gratitude when he passed the first interview. The gig wasn't a sure thing, but Stiles was optimistic, he told Derek, and his excitement was catching. 

This also meant that Stiles and Derek hung out intentionally, as opposed to hanging out in a “chill ass BBQ group chill,” as Scott had described his Fourth of July party. It felt good. It felt like progress. It felt like, strangely, finally exchanging phone numbers. And... friendship, cautiously. A small sprout of a thing. They spent the first twenty minutes at the bar being awkward and giggly and endorsing each other's skills on LinkedIn mobile so that they could, as Stiles described it, “continue the exchange of professional goodwill” that Derek had extended. 

“You are fantastic at 'Design,' yes, and you are obviously excellent at 'Project Management',” Stiles proclaimed formally, “because I know you have projects and you absolutely manage them. You are so manage-y. Very management. Much project.” 

“That's actually a specific skill, dumb ass,” chuckled Derek. “You do know that that's Kira's entire job, right?” 

Stiles's eyes became huge. “Oh shit, yeah! She has to make those insane charts, damn, I'm such an ass. OK, 'Writing'! You certainly have writing skills. As a professional word person, yes, text messages are 10/10 well-written, would read again.” Derek laughed loudly at that. He was pretty sure the last text he'd sent Stiles said “see you there” without any punctuation.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said, bowing with a flourish. “As a designer, it's obviously my way with words that has propelled my career and wowed my family and friends for so many years.”

Stiles frowned and gave him a lingering look, some truth in Derek's self-deprecation souring the mood. “I think you're great with words,” Stiles argued earnestly. “I actually-- I don't know, I think you're a really good listener. And that's part of getting it. You're, um-- quiet. Sometimes. But that's how I can tell you know about language. When you write or speak, I know you mean it. ”

It felt intense and a little frightening, a little urgent, to sit under Stiles' sudden scrutiny. He was still in interview clothes, looking weird in a forest green shirt, hair long and wild; Derek was sweating in a long-sleeved flannel and fall boots, fighting viciously to keep his hands occupied. The moment crackled in the air, crucial and full.

“I do mean it. When I talk to you, or-- you know, try, um--I know, though, that this year... I haven't said much to you, really. I don't think you've wanted to hear much from me, have you?”

Stiles bit his lip and closed his eyes briefly. “I guess I haven't,” he answered finally. He laughed nervously, the sound of his body so different than it had been a few moments before. His voice turned gently pleading. “Can I finish telling you about my shit, already? I feel like I keep half-explaining myself, and I know that we're hanging out as friends, but-- can I tell you about it, for a minute?”

Derek wanted to know about everything and anything that Stiles wanted to tell him. He nodded and watched Stiles finish his beer in a gulp. He sat with the glass in his hand for a long minute.

“I'm a tsunami,” he finally said, abruptly, bringing his glass down onto the bar. “That's-- it's actually a thing me and my therapist talk about, we have this whole wave metaphor for, like, the strength of my love.” He smiled to himself. “It makes me feel sort of cool and badass, obviously, but, um, it's true. I love-- hard. And big.

“At first, it was routine. I just tumbled into relationships, over and over, serial monogamist to a T. Which, you know,” he waved his hand flippantly, “probably isn't great, but it's not that strange when you're in your early twenties. I embraced it, decided I liked to be needed, liked the consistency, just owned it.” 

He looked over at Derek sheepishly, a small smile on his lips. “My mom was a social worker and she was... the biggest heart. I'm proud, and I should be proud, that I make people feel safe. I'm not sorry for that, and I don't want to be.

“But these last couple years it just became all that I was, you know? I felt out of control. Like I couldn't stop, or I wasn't myself without people leaning on me and needing me. My whole self-image was dependent on someone depending on me, and I lost track of how to ask for anything back. Sex became... confusing, for me. I think I started to use it as a way to care for people, make them feel better, and it-- I-- I don't think it should be like that, all the time. For me. I think-- sometimes, you know, but not all the time.”

That fit, Derek thought. He thought of hands touching his Christmas light crown, hovering just inches from his eyebrows, his lips. He felt a flicker of retroactive panic.

“Did I-- last winter, did I ask about you?” he interrupted. “All I remember is talking about me. God, I thought we had this-- but I didn't even ask anything, I didn't--”

“You did! No, come on, you-- remember the the stories?”

Derek had forgotten. He'd asked Stiles at the party about his best date stories. It was a dumb ice breaker that Laura had given him: your three best stories that you tell on first dates. All three of Stiles' had to do with Scott; two had to do with getting detention after chemistry class.

“You asked me about the stories, and about me and Scott, and Alison, and about work. I told you, you're a good listener. I don't-- I don't want you to think that I'm just caring for you because I don't know how else to interact with you. You care for _me _, Derek. You listen to me, and you care for me, and I--” Stiles cut himself off.__

__On top of the bar, shredding a paper coaster, his hands were shaking._ _

__“I want to care for you back without just crashing into you or bowling you over. And I want to care for you because you're you, not because you need me, or because it's automatic, because that's actually selfish.”_ _

__They both sighed at the same moment, a little relief giving way to something weighty between them. Derek nodded. It wasn't-- new, exactly. Just a confirmation of everything that already was._ _

__“I want to love you like you talk to me,” Stiles said. “I want to be quiet sometimes so that when I speak, you know I mean it.”_ _

__

__They stayed in the bar for another hour, sitting mostly in silence, drinking another beer each. They talked about Laura and her family, and the L train weekend schedule, and Stiles' blog. They hugged each other for a long time before they parted ways, and that night, Derek hoped and hoped and hoped that Stiles would still want him next year._ _


	6. Season Change

**October:**

The best moment in October was when Stiles, Allison, and half the studio came to watch Derek run a 10k. He wrapped each of them up in sweaty hugs at the finish line, lifting Allison off her feet and running in a circle with her shrieking in his arms. When he hugged Stiles, they held onto each other for a long time until Stiles groaned and pulled away. “Ugh, I hate you because you're beautiful,” he said, pushing at Derek's chest weakly. “Please get your sculpted runner's physique away from me.” And Derek felt like he could run the race all over again.

After their talk, things between Derek and Stiles had become at once more intense and also... looser, Derek thought. More casual, at least by outward appearances. It was easier to be around each other in groups, more comfortable to end up at Scott and Allison's for dinner on the same Sunday night, or catch up at the office as Scott packed up to leave with Stiles. They didn't talk about the thing between them, the cautious expectation that hung in the air, but instead they joked as friends, gave Kira deliberately terrible advice on her love life until Scott emerged from his office and shooed Stiles out the door. Derek didn't push boundaries, and neither did Stiles. They texted infrequently, didn't hang out alone.

It was possible, though, Derek conceded to Laura, that even their tentative friendship was too reckless, too selfish. “Every time I see him,” he'd confessed on the phone, “I just think about him more and more, and it's... I know I shouldn't feel like I have some claim over him, but I do. I can feel myself setting these high expectations and I can't stop.” 

“What happens if he doesn't want anything next year?” Laura posed.

“I think I'm really fucking sad,” he said bluntly. “And I think I'm in too deep to come back.”

The worst moment in October was at 2:00am on a Sunday, sharing a van home from a bar. Post-race dinner had turned into celebratory dancing, and the night lasted several hours longer than Derek expected. He was exhausted, legs sore and throbbing, and unhappily sober.

By contrast, Allison and Stiles were drunk, too drunk, and Scott was somewhere in between. Stiles had danced with someone at the bar, slow grinding his ass against him, then panicked when the man kissed his neck. Derek had watched from the bar, queasy and devastated. Now Stiles had his arms around Scott's shoulders and was singing quietly, “I fucked up, I fucked up so bad, Scotty,” while Allison hummed and held Derek's hand, happily oblivious. 

“Shit, I fucked up so bad,” Stiles whimpered to Scott. “Will he still like me?

“Shhh, shut up, I love you,” Scott whispered back.

The worst moment of October was when Derek wasn't sure if Stiles was worried about him or the guy from the bar who'd put his hand down Stiles' pants. He wasn't allowed to think that, he wasn't-- he wasn't entitled to that. To be the one that mattered more. But some ugly part of him wanted to be the guy that Stiles worried about when he was drunk, the guy that Stiles wanted to want him, even in his most inebriated state. And the darkest part of him wanted desperately for Stiles to feel guilty and regretful on his behalf, longed for Stiles to feel ashamed.

The worst parts of October were Derek's own thoughts. 

He was in a sour mood about it through Tuesday morning, when Scott called his cell phone three times in the middle of the morning.

“Scott, why the fuck are you calling me repeatedly and not sitting at your desk like the rest of us,” Derek snarled. The animation in front of him-- version seven, which Derek was currently realizing looked nearly the same as version three-- looped cheerfully, a happy website greeting. “I'm working on the flavor crystals site. What do you want.”

“Alright first of all, asshole, the office phones are off, so please sass Kira if my calls are disrupting your work,” Scott retorted, sounding irritated. “Second of all, you're super fucking pretentious about the fucking flavor crystals, and you need to get over it. And third, Stiles and Allison somehow gave each other the flu after Rum Bonanza 2015, and I feel about two hours from dropping, too. I'm working from home to spare you. And also so I can babysit these losers.” 

Derek sighed and put his forehead on the desk. “You are a very thoughtful person, Scott McCall,” he said apologetically, “and I'm sorry that your sister wives are ill.”

“Thank you,” Scott said haughtily. “I shall extend your condolences.”

“Are you just calling to tell me this now, though? It's 11:30, man, I'm surprised you haven't already heard from Tina.” Their boss had a thing about punctuality on Monday mornings; something about solidarity and bonding through group suffering.

“Oh, no, I texted her at 7. I'm calling you now because Stiles is having a weird fever fit and won't stop demanding that you text him. He lost his phone, though, can you text him on mine?”

Derek tried his best to focus on work, but he texted Stiles for the rest of the day. 

'Drink more gatorade,' he started shyly. 

'DEREKYESOK' was the response he received immediately. 

He snorted, bad mood evaporated.

'I'm in way too fucking deep,' he texted Laura. 

 

**November:**

In November, Derek and his therapist met only twice. He slept at normal times, worked out five days each week, and talked himself out of a panic attack in a busy subway station. He wasn't always OK, he found, but he was certainly getting better at being that way. It was like sprinting on his high school track team, he thought. How the coach timed his recovery, tracking how long it took Derek's heart rate to get back to normal. It's not about avoiding the sadness and anxiety, he told himself, just about recovering faster.

There was no Not Sad, he realized, no version of his life in which he didn't see the world as painful and threatening at times. A year ago, Derek had been convinced that seeking out good things-- Stiles, mainly-- would drive away the darkness, but he knew now that wasn't how it worked.

There was only After Sad, he thought, only some new, small, pearl of light in the sadness, which was the stubborn knowledge that he had come back from every dark place he'd ever been, and he would do it again. His rational mind returned eventually, he knew, and he was learning to be more patient every time.

He found himself talking about his Depression out loud, in public, for the first time ever. 

“That book's really good,” he mentioned to a woman browsing in the bookstore. She was holding a slim little book on self-care; Carol had given it to Derek a few months ago, and he'd worked through all of the exercises on the train home, surreptitiously, hiding the book's cover with a magazine.

The woman turned, a little startled, and smiled at him. “Oh, is it really? I thought it looked-- a little clinical, I guess. It's for my daughter, she's in high school.” 

“No, it's helpful, I-- I have Depression and Anxiety, and it was really easy to read. I filled it all out but I still use it, sometimes.” Derek shrugged and tried to look well-adjusted. “It's, um-- better. I feel better with it.”

“Oh, I-- thank you,” the woman replied. “I'll, um, keep that in mind.”

Derek nodded and walked away. There was something about saying it out loud that made him feel fearless. He wanted to try it out again. He wanted to say it louder. He was starting to find a strange joy in fucking up and recovering faster, better.

 

Also in November, Stiles planned to go out on a date. Scott was the one who told Derek about it, and Derek was grateful that Scott was therefore the only person to witness the sputtering freakout that he experienced in response to the news. 

“It's a totally therapist-approved baby step, I promise,” Scott explained. “He's explained his situation to this woman and she's totally cool with just helping him to dip his toes back in and hang out with someone who's not, you know, me.”

“Um, yeah. That makes sense, actually, I mean-- I'm not—I--”

“She already knows his boundaries,” Scott interrupted. “She knows it's just a one-time date. Honestly, I'm really happy for Stiles.” He paused and looked meaningfully at Derek, eyebrows slightly raised. “You're happy for him too, right?” he prodded.

“Yeah, of course. I just thought...”

“A baby step, Derek. It has to happen eventually.”

“But what about that guy at the bar last month?” Derek demanded. “He freaked out, and I—he's put so much work into this, and I don't want him to, you know...”

“What?”

“Quit, I guess. Give up before it's... done.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Derek, Stiles is the most stubborn motherfucker I've ever met, second only to his father. And the Sheriff's only more stubborn because he's older and his stubbornness has, like, calcified.” Scott grinned. “I promise you, it's a good thing. He's not quitting, he's evolving. He's getting ready to be a bigger, badder version of himself. And I'm not telling you because you have a chance of indirectly stopping him, I'm telling you because you're stupidly into him and I don't want you to get wind of it and do something dumb.”

So finally, in November, Derek went out on a date himself. He went out for Thai food and exactly one drink with a guy from his gym; he politely declined a second date the next day.

He wrote Stiles an email that said the following: “I want you to know that I don't expect you to be perfect next year. I don't expect that you won't fuck up, or that you'll be all better, or that you won't do something that reminds you of your old self and scares the shit out of you. But you don't scare me. I just want you to know.”

He saved it in his drafts and did not, as Scott had feared, do something dumb.


	7. Winter, at last.

**December, I:**

“Are you coming to the party, Derek?”

Derek winced. “Shit, yeah-- I saw that email but didn't, uh, actually read it. Holiday party again?”

“Yeah, for New Year's. Allison and I are gonna travel before Christmas, so, we're doing New Year's Eve this year.”

Derek smiled at Scott. “I wouldn't miss it.”

 

**December, II:**

Stiles was flushed but not drunk, picking at his straw nervously. The party was loud, music rattling the walls, and so Derek and Stiles were holed up in the master bathroom, sitting on the counter. 

“Can I tell you something weird?” Stiles half yelled. “This year... I tried really hard not to plan on you, you know. Pining after someone, fixating on the idea of someone, preparing for them-- that's almost just as bad as what I was doing before.” He shrugged, still nervous, but unashamed. “I tried not to think about you and just to clear my head, focus on listening to myself. Figure out what I needed and wanted.

“But it was hard, and not for the reason I thought. It was hard because you sort of inspired the whole thing, and when it was bad I felt really mad at you and when it was good, I just wanted to thank you.”

Derek hugged his knees and hid his face, felt his cheeks get warm. Stiles had come late, opting to watch the ball drop with his dad, and Derek spent the countdown to midnight practically pacing a hole in the floor. He'd had three beers in about 30 minutes and now he was tipsy and giddy, scared to open his mouth.

“At that party at here last year, I was so-- I was so in love with you.” Stiles cringed as he giggled apologetically. “I mean, I was about to throw you over my shoulder and take you to Vegas-- hey I'm serious, asshole!” Derek laughed so hard he almost fell off the counter “-- I totally flipped! But you were talking about your Depression and the things you were doing to get better, and I was--”

Stiles was laughing too, then, slipping off the counter and reaching out to take Derek's hand and steady him. He looked so good, even in the stupid fluorescent light of the white, pre-fab bathroom, bland and aging. They laughed until the music took over the silence and then Stiles continued, voice a little lower as he tugged at Derek's hand, pulling him to stand.

“I just wanted that, what you had. I wanted that more than I wanted you, and more than I wanted to help you. I'd been sad and fucking worried about myself but I hadn't told anyone, and you made me think that maybe I could actually do something about it,” Stiles said.

“I didn't spend this year staying away from you to prepare for you, or become better for you. I haven't been purifying myself, you know.” Derek nodded, because he did know. He stepped closer and moved his hand around Stiles' waist. Stile' eyes flickered briefly downward before he look at Derek, continuing determinedly. “I just saw that you were working on this thing and it was hard and you were scared but I could tell you were getting better, and I wanted to get better, too.”

“Thank you for saying that,” Derek responded. “I... I didn't really know that's what you thought about after that night, but it means a lot to me to hear that.” More than you might now, he thought.

They moved closer, holding each other a strange embrace, and Stiles spoke into Derek's ear.

“I don't need you,” he said simply, voice small but clear. Derek could see, out of the corner of his eye, the satisfied smile spreading across Stiles' face. “I don't need you to need me, and I'm really proud of myself for that. I ask Scott about you sometimes, and-- I, I really hope that you can be OK on your own. Because I can be. And because if _you_ can be, I'd really like to eat food with you and hold your hand.”

“Stiles?”

“Yes?”

“I can be OK my own.”

And then he pressed his mouth against Stiles', soft and unmistakeable, for the first time.


End file.
